


In One Fell Swoop

by MilkyToastBoi (MilkyToastBitchBoi)



Series: Waiting in the Wings [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Set, Church moment, M/M, The Blitz, crowley is nice and stupidly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 12:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkyToastBitchBoi/pseuds/MilkyToastBoi
Summary: It takes Anthony J. Crowley nearly six-thousand years to realize that he would do just about anything for a certain pale-haired, book-loving, one-jacket-having angel.





	In One Fell Swoop

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the show as I have never read the book (though I do intend to). Helpful criticism is always welcome here.

It takes Anthony J. Crowley nearly six-thousand years to realize that he would do just about anything for a certain pale-haired, book-loving, one-jacket-having angel.

Crowley isn’t stupid, not by a long shot. It’s just that sometimes things take him a little longer to get than others. This happens to be one of those times—though he’s quite sure the angel hasn’t noticed at all. So, yes, it takes him nearly six-thousand years to realize that he would do quite literally anything for Aziraphale.

The thought comes out of nowhere, like an epiphany, sudden and clear and just a tad terrifying. It halts him mid-step out of his precious Bentley, his eyes widening as he takes in the silhouette of a church. Crowley, an actual demon, is about to march onto holy ground—something that’s sure to burn him every step of the way—just to save an angel that doesn’t even really need saving.

Crowley grits his teeth in preparation, his fingers flexing at his sides as he gears up to touch the heavy oak door. He can hear people speaking just inside—indistinct murmurs, really—but after a near millennium of conversations, Crowley can easily pick out the familiar tenor of Aziraphale’s voice. He shakes his head and pushes open the door, the oak scrapes against his palm like an army of angry fire ants.

“Satan bless it,” he seethes, jerking his hand back and blowing a puff of cold air across the warm skin, all the while watching in a combination of horror and intrigue as blisters begin to bubble up already.

”Well,” he says to himself dryly. Eyes drifting over his red palm. “This is going to be an absolute blast.” 

With the door open now, he can clearly hear Aziraphale’s voice, the tone of it taken aback. 

 _Now or never_ , he thinks to himself and steps inside the shadowy place of worship.

He’s never been inside a church before, and for good reason, just being around religious articles makes him uncomfortable, but this… this is close to unbearable. The floor feels like what he’s always imagined dipping one’s foot into lava would be akin to, burning away at him, trying to cleanse the disease of his being as he saunters his way deeper inside. He bounces from foot to foot, hoping to ease the sting even for just a second, but it doesn’t really ease anything.

He keeps his eyes straightforward, locked on the four figures just between the rows of pews. Even still, the crosses hanging along the walls and painted into the glass windows makes his wrists ache, makes a prickling sensation break out around the crown of his head.

Crowley sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out in little whooshes of, “Ah, oh, ow, ow, ow.”

It’s stupid, he thinks at himself over and over the closer he gets to the front of the church. It’s not like Aziraphale would _die_ from being shot. Sure, Crowley admits, it would be a nuisance, the angel would be discorporated and have to go back to heaven, but it wouldn’t be for _forever._ The angel would be back in a few days—maybe, even a few weeks—he’d just have to wait for a new body. The point is, Crowley would see him again.

So, Crowley is really just doing this to—to what? Save face for an angel? Keep him from being saddled with the load of paperwork it would inevitably cause or being berated back up in heaven by that asshat Gabriel? Crowley is a demon, he shouldn’t care about an angel being yelled at. If anything it should excite him, and yet…

And yet, the very thought of Aziraphale standing with his metaphorical tail between his legs as Gabriel snaps at him grates on every single one of Crowley’s nerves. He wouldn’t be around to see the angel’s sad little eyes or his quiet little affirmations to do a better job, but just the thought of it… well, it’s almost as unbearable as the ground Crowley is walking on for him.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hisses at him.

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses. “Stopping you from getting into trouble.”

Aziraphale scoffs at him and turns a side eye onto the Nazi’s before returning his attention to Crowley and accusing him of working with the half-witted psychopaths. Crowley exhales loudly through his nose, of course, the angel would think the Nazi’s are his associates. He’s a demon after all, and well, Nazi’s are more or less the human versions of his kind, barely even human really.

Crowley makes a face at the thought of working with them and leans back against the pew, it makes his thigh sting but takes the weight of his feet for a little reprieve. “I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.”

The words come out of his mouth before he can think of something better. Not a lie per se, just not the whole truth like he had just unintentionally spewed out. He does a twist on his feet and hisses out a little more in pain, and almost misses the soft look on the angel’s face as he looks at the ground. Crowley swallows thickly, his lips parting to say something just a touch disparaging, but the Nazi interrupts him.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Anthony?” Aziraphale repeats, ignoring the Nazi’s completely to turn his gaze onto Crowley. There’s a little wrinkle between his brows that Crowley has the irritating urge to reach out and smooth away.

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asks, leaning in a little closer to Aziraphale, eyes darting over the angels face, taking on every minuscule twitch. There are a thousand different names already running through his head, letters tickling his tongue in preparation to suggest a new one in case it’s a no.

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale says quickly, back straightening ever so slightly. He tips his head to the side, “I’ll get used to it.”

Crowley feels his inside go warm.

 _Bitter baby Judas, I’m melting,_ he thinks with some panic, one hand going to his abdomen and clutching at it. _The church is melting me on the inside._

He barely registers the young woman talking to him, has only a small presence of mind to tip his hat at her when she threatens to end his life.

Aziraphale looks appalled for just a second before turning a quizzical look onto Crowley and asking—like they aren’t being held at gunpoint and in danger of discorporation—what the J stands for in his name. He stumbled over his words, stammering for a just a second before remembering that the J doesn’t really have a purpose. It just adds a little pizzazz.

“It’s just a J really,” he says and turns his head away from Aziraphale’s amused expression.

The next minute happens both too slowly and too fast as Crowley tries to get his point across to Aziraphale. The bomb slicing through the air on its plunge towards them, whistling loudly. There are hardly a few seconds between Aziraphale slipping on his hat and throwing up his hands, angelic energy washing over the pair of them, shielding them both from harm. The feeling is squeaky clean and feather soft, as though it’s the angel’s wings folding around him instead of a miracle. Crowley leans into it and away from it all at once, his own demonic nature at war with the sensation.

It’s just as the bomb touches the steeple that he remembers the books—Aziraphale’s precious, precious books—and flicks a quick hand at them, dark energy swirling around them like a black hole and swallowing them up in its belly to hold for safe keeping. Hell will ask about him about it at some point, and Crowley will lie—it’s not like he can tell Hastur or Ligur why he really saved them, just to keep an angel from pouting.

Even after the church is destroyed, Aziraphale holds him in his miracle, waiting until the dust has mostly settled around them and the rubble has found purchase enough to stop tumbling about. He sniffs at the destroyed church and removes his hat, fingers delicately brushing away a few stray strands of soot that stain the fabric.

Crowley slides his glass down his nose and plucks them off to clean them.

Aziraphale turns his head towards Crowley, fingers falling still on the brim of his hat. He looks almost awkward as he stands there in the ruins. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips before he says haltingly, “That was very kind of you.”

Crowley makes a face and slides his glasses back on to hide his eyes. “Shut up,” he grumbles even though he knows the angel is right. It was stupid, and it was kind, and he knows already that he would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

“Well, it was, no paperwork for a start,” Aziraphale says and then his eyes go wide, his lips parting in a little O of horror as his head snaps to the side. “Oh, the books!”

His hands flutter at his sides as though he wants to perform another miracle just to bring them back but knows he can’t because it would be a needless miracle. His voice cracks just a hair as he says, “Oh, I forgot all the books!”

Crowley ducks his head to hide his smile, it feels too soft on his lips, too fond. He knew the angel would fret over the books. Carefully, Crowley makes his way through the rubble as the angel continues his laments. There’s an arm sticking up from beneath a thick piece of stone, an untouched bag held it its outstretched reach. Crowley wrestles the bag from its dead fingertips and with a sort of casualness, he doesn’t feel he hands the bag over and offers the angel a lift home.

He doesn’t look back at Aziraphale as he moves towards where his Bentley is parked—untouched and perfect—just down the street. He wants to see the angel’s expression, wants to know if the angel is pleased or confused or-or something, but he can’t because his own face feels to warm to look natural. So, he keeps his head aimed straight and marches from the broken building.

“That would be lovely,” the angel says, voice a little breathy and reply a little late.

“Well then, come on,” Crowley calls back, waving his fingers through the air in an invitation.

There’s a shuffle of feet on rocks and then the angel is just a few steps behind him. Crowley snaps his fingers and the Bentley’s doors swing open, warm air coiling out from it, inviting the pair of them inside from the chilly night.

The drive back towards Aziraphale’s shop is quiet, the angel holding one-handedly to the bag of books on his lap, his other hand held white-knuckled around the door handle. Crowley eases his foot off the gas ever so slightly, in increments, so as not to be immediately notable. He hates that he feels pleased when the angel’s grip loosens, color returning to his thick fingers, knuckles flashing pink with every pass beneath a street lamp.

He, admittedly, stops a little too fast, and it might have been entirely on purpose.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes when the bag of books tumbles to the floor.

Crowley grins at him, wide and sharp. “Sorry, Angel.”

“You’re not.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not even a little.” Because he’s not. He likes the way Aziraphale says his name, just this side of frustrated but not surprised and yet—underneath it all—still a hair fond.

The angel huffs and smooths out his waistcoat, before delicately resting his hands on his knees. Crowley turns his head to him, his fingers not leaving the steering wheel. He arches a brow but isn’t entirely sure that Aziraphale can see it with the glasses he’s wearing. He waits.

“Would you care for some wine?” The angel asks him, expression earnest.

Crowley blinks in surprise.

“I really must thank you for—”

Crowley makes an irritated sound at him and waves away the thanks. “Don’t thank me, angel, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“Oh, very well, very well, I won’t thank you,” Aziraphale says, fingers tapping on his knees. 

It takes Crowley a moment to realize he’s still waiting on an answer. Crowley wants to say yes, wants to go inside and indulge himself on the angel’s fine wine and laugh until the stupid balloon in his chest pops from the force of it, but he can’t.

“Rain check on that wine, Angel?” he asks. “Got some business I got to take care of tonight.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale nods, teeth biting down onto his bottom lip. He looks disappointed. “Okay then, another time, perhaps.”

“Yeah. Another time.”

The angel smiles at him, small and soft and then he’s climbing out of the car, bag clutched to his chest and gently closing the door. He gives a little one-handed wave and then marches up to his shop door. Crowley watches with amusement as the angel fiddles with a key. Crowley snaps his fingers and the shop door opens, warm light spilling out into the night, haloing the angel. Aziraphale glances back at him, waves yet again, and then disappears inside.

Crowley waits several seconds, watches as lights turn on and then off and then the shop seemingly goes still. He lets out a shaky breath, fingers relaxing on the steering wheel. He hisses through his teeth as he reaches towards on wrist and pulls away the cuff of his shirt. There’s blood there, fresh and sticky, oozing from a deep hole that mars the middle of his wrist—he knows without looking that there’s a twin wound on his other wrist, can feel it, deep and painful and wet with his blood.

He pushes his hat off his head and lets it fall onto the passenger seat, the white lining inside is stained a rusty red from the thorn sized pinpricks around the crown of his skull. He shakes his head. The things he does for an angel are ridiculous. His wounds can attest to that—the blisters that cover the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands that will take weeks to heal thanks to the holy energy that had caused them—all serve to show him just how far he’s willing to go.

For one, clumsy, little angel.

A part of him is terrified, but the other side of him—the quieter side that he refuses to admit having—is hopeful that maybe one day the angel will see he’s not as bad as heaven insists all demons are… He’s not good, not by a long shot, but he’s also not evil. He wants the angel to see that they can be friends… partners in the long stretch of their eternity… and maybe one day… if he plays his cards right, something more.

He looks back at the shop, his eyes tracing the sign over head.

_A.Z. Fell._

He smiles to himself, soft and fond and thankfully hidden from all to see. The first time Crowley fell was more of a saunter, vague in its tumble down. The second time was like a leap of faith, headfirst and all in, so quick and sudden that he hadn’t realized he was falling until he was already on the ground. Still, he much prefers the second time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A second part might be coming about when Aziraphale realized the same thing. Not entirely sure yet.


End file.
